OCTOBER 1993 - 1/2

Mon. 4: I met Dr. Teltscher at his office. He's the graphologist
I consulted about my parents back in 88. This time it was about my
landlord and my locksmith that I was consulting him. I wanted to
make sure that the way I perceived both men was founded in reality.
A few days after he received the samples I sent to him, he called
me asking for the correct spelling of both men's name, although I
had already spelled them in my letter. Since I was sure by then
that my phone was tapped I thought that the confidentiality of our
relationship would be inexistant.

I set up my tape recorder on the table and he started. "OK" he
said "but don't get me involved with any of this." Everything he
said confirmed what I thought of those men, so I was reassured that
it was not all in my mind. He even spoke about the shoddy work of
Cohen, the lack of morals. About Bonarti he spoke about extreme
tension and nervousness "He's wound-up like a top."(he bites his
fingernails and the few times we were alone together in his car or
at the restaurant, he was extremely nervous), a tendency towards
violence... I said "Do you mean physical violence?" and then I
thought about his martial arts practice. "Yes, physical violence"
he said. "It might be that he was beaten when he was a child. You
know, he has an Italian name, so it's not impossible that he's
connected with the Mafia." Bad, bad news.

I rewound the tape a bit and found out that it was blank. I
hadn't made any test at the beginning because I was confident the
machine worked fine. The only thing that could be wrong was that
the tiny battery for the mike was dead and the mike hadn't picked
up any sound. "Well, I said, maybe you like it better that way."

Then I talked to him briefly about the context that brought me
to consult with him, and the fact that all my sources of income
were blocked. I said I wished that I could meet a good single man
with a view to marriage, and that maybe he knew a few from his
practice as a psychotherapist and a graphologist. He said he sure
knew a few, men who had the courage to face their problems, and
that he could help me to some extent with my problems. "What would
you do?" He said he could teach me how to relax. "And how much do
you charge per 45mn session?" "same as for a graphology
consultation, $125." "Well, you see, I can't afford it." (The most
humiliating thing anybody can say in America). I had just explained
to him that all my sources of income were blocked and that I was
driven to the brink of destitution, and he offered me to relax at
$125 per session. Hardly a solution to my money woes, and
relaxation at this price might get me all tensed up. But if there
was the hope that he would introduce me to some good men? Naaah.

Wed. 6: One month ago I reserved some time at John Best's
recording studio. I wanted to make a tape to get an idea of how I
sound at this point. Not even for demo purpose, just to get a
progress report, but considering that all my contacts are burnt, I
cancelled the reservation. I was lucky he wasn't there when I
called ten days ago, and I left the message on his machine, saying
I would call again to reschedule with no intention of doing so.

I had a court date at Small claims court. It looked like there
were 400 people there. There was an atmosphere of expectancy. I
felt the hope that justice would be served, it gave me a comforting
feeling. I saw all kinds of people seeking justice, including young
women. Maybe I had a chance too. When the clerk called my case I
said "By the Court" because I want a trial, I don't want to settle
the case with an arbitrator. It's more than a little disagreement
over money.

After all the cases had been called, the room emptied. Some
people stayed to have their cases arbitrated, and a few stayed to
have their case go to trial before the judge. The judge was a
woman. I thought this is the judge who will hear my case, and I
stayed to see how the trial of the parties present developed.

Tues. 12: Under driving rain I go buy a new cylinder for my door
lock. I hope in this terrible weather nobody will follow me. I ask
the locksmith on Columbus how can someone enter a place that's
locked with a pick-proof lock like this. He says it's impossible.
I insist that there is a way, but I see the two guys'eyes glaze
over. They think I'm nuts.

Wed. 13: I install my new cylinder. It's easy! To think that I
payed a guy $70 (including cylinder) to do that job! I'm glad I
saved myself some money but wait... it's the 13th! Maybe it's an
unlucky day and my efforts will be for naught!

Thurs. 14: Receive THREE letters from the Disciplinary Committee
all of them dated October 13 (why do they always write on the
13th?). One is about Cassell (workers'comp) saying they forwarded
my complaint to him. The second is about Kurach (the other partner
at the firm Kurach and Cassell), the third is a cover letter
forwarding the Slavits'answer to my complaint. They say that when
Ira visited me at the hospital I stated that I was sideswiped. In
the transcripts I say I was hit. Now these lawyers, as specialists
of traffic accidents, know very well that the verbs "hit" and
"sideswiped" are not interchangeable. One indicates a point of
impact, the other begs for precision about time and distance. Yet,
assuming I was the one who changed the verb, they should have asked
me "You said you were sideswiped, and now you say you were hit.
Which one is it exactly?" but they didn't ask. They deny any
knowledge that what I said at the 50-h and the EBT was anything but
the truth, but since it is obvious that what I said was not true,
it is also obvious that they knew that what I said wasn't true. But
they didn't call my attention to the inconsistency. They deny that
I wasn't sworn in.

"... prior to our dismissal, the attitude as expressed by [the
TA attorneys] was a belief that that the jury that would hear this
case would not be sympathetic to a bicyclist or a messenger." Why
wouldn't they be sympathetic to a bicyclist? Isn't it my attorneys
job to select a jury that is unbiased towards me as a bicyclist and
a messenger. Why would people have a grudge against bicyclists?
Isn't this irrational? Against messengers, I understand, but not
all messengers are riding against traffic and on the sidewalk! Why
would a jury execrate a white female bicycle messenger?

"....While liability and comparative negligence were at issue,
there was no question that she had suffered a significant injury."
Ah! So liability was at issue. It means that they were going to put
all the blame on me, and use the inconsistency in my statements to
prove that I had something to hide. The only thing they admit is
that I suffered a serious injury. Well, this would be hard to deny.

"Taking the complaint as a whole, it is apparent that Ms
Picart's complaints not only concern this lawfirm but also her
doctors, her landlord, the police, the attorney Susan Benson, and
even the court reporters who, contrary to their assertions, Ms.
Picart states, did not swear her in before she testified.... She
has apparently convinced herself that [we were], from the
beginning, engaged in an elaborate conspiracy to sabotage her case
against the [TA]... This firm did not expend over $2,500 and
extensive time and effortm in order to cause Ms. Picart's claim to
be defeated. At the time of our discharge as her attorneys, she had
a viable cause of action... We acted strictly on behalf of our
client and no one else... We are unaware that any of her answers
... were not intended to be truthful and deny that she was told in
any manner to answer questions other than truthfully and to the
best of her recollection."

Pack of lies. Ms. Picart has convinced herself. Yeah, I'm nuts.
And, pray tell, how could my cause of action be "viable" with a
glaring inconsistency in my testimonies?

FAX TO ME LAURENT

October 14, 1993

I have received you letter of september 23 the day after I sent
you my fax of the 29th. This is to confirm that I give up the
apartment in Paris that I had asked you to reserve for my personal
use.

Instead of transfering the funds through the BNP, could you
please wire the money to my bank account, with the same number and
references I have given you already.

Could you please explain to me why you have invested the
proceeds of the sale of the apartments instead of giving me an
advance on my settlement as you have done for several of my
siblings, and could you tell me how much money has been invested in
UNOFI?

I hope that you will wire the amount before october 20 etc.

Sat. 16: FAX FROM MOTHER

Brigitte

You must come over, so that we can lay everything flat together
and you'll have your share as soon as Pantin (building) is sold.
(1)

On september 18, there was an explosion and a fire on the second
floor of the [Paris building]. Miss Parize's apartment is burnt
through. She's in the hospital, where I visited her again
yesterday. (2) But she hadn't renewed her insurance for 93!... (3)

A lot of problems pile on top of those of Pantin [building].
While waiting for the insurance money from the AGF for the fire, we
must front the money at least to repair the hallway and stairwell.
(4). You can't imagine my troubles and tiredness. (5)

Tell me the dates of your trip and I'll send you a round trip
ticket since you speak about staying longer in NY. (6)

Je t'embrasse bien fort. Maman
(1) She had promised me I would get a substantial part of my share
after the first building was sold, now it's after the second
building is sold, which could take years.
(2) I don't believe this explosion and fire. It's a new trick, a
new excuse not to give me any money. The landlord visits her tenant
more than once in the hospital. How kind. And when I was in the
hospital, I mistrusted this landlord, my mother, so much that I
didn't even call her to tell her I was injured. I thought she would
add to my problems instead of helping me.
(3) When I went to this building in the fall of 1990, she had
posted a sign requesting all tenants to send her a copy of their
insurance policy (and also requesting all checks to be written to
her name). So how could the old lady be uninsured?
(4) Just what I thought. The money that was earmarked for me will
be spent instead on building repairs. She speaks of repairing at
least the stairwell and hallway but not the apartment to save
money. Ridiculous.
(5) Guilt trip. It looks like, because she's my mother, she's the
only one entitled to have troubles and be tired. How about my own
troubles?
(6) She speaks as if I had made the decision to travel, when she's
the one who says "You must come over." She always offers to pay my
trip like she's so generous. She doesn't realize (or does she?)
that it's humiliating for me to accept her handouts. I'd much
rather she allowed me to make a living, so I wouldn't need her to
buy me a plane ticket.

Mon. 18: I call the firehouse near the building in Paris to have
confirmation that they actually put out a fire at 32 ave. de
Choisy. They give me the address of the office where I can get a
report. But what's the use? I know that there never was an
explosion and a fire. It's a total hoax. It's my mother's latest
idea to prevent me from getting my inheritance.

What a great example of sadistic mental cruelty! And so similar
to what has been happening here, with things disappearing,
reappearing, changing place, and my costly attempts to protect my
privacy always defeated.

A few days ago I went to the hat store Worth & Worth on Madison
avenue to ask if they would be interested in seeing my berets, and
they asked me to return when the store manager was there. Today I
returned with my sausage bag full of berets. The manager liked them
a lot. They are actually all beautiful, and they were all
different. The counter was getting crowded with berets as I pulled
them out of my bag, and every time I pulled out a new one, there
were exclamations of appreciation from the manager and the staff.
A tall, big customer noticed the big dark green cashmere beret with
the shimmering mauve silk lining and asked if it was for sale.
After a while the manager said that he would like to show a few to
the big boss because it was he who bought the merchandise. I let
him choose the ones he wanted to keep, he gave me a card with a
receipt for the seven hats and told me to return in a week, after
he had a chance to show the berets to his boss.

In the evening I went to a Learning Annex class about private
investigation techniques. What made me sign up was the statements
that one could de-bug one's phone. There were a few women who had
some problems with privacy like me, some people who were trying to
find somebody, some writers.

Shortly before the class began, a man came and sat near me. He
caught my attention because he had a tic. He was snapping his mouth
open and shut. I noticed that he looked in his sixties. His graying
hair was long, like he couldn't afford a haircut, and dirty, like
he couldn't afford a shampoo. His shoes were cheap and the soles
scuffed, his clothing looked dirty and polyester.

The speaker looked very creepy. He looked macho yet there was
something effeminate about him. He is Vincent Parco, the former
owner of a private investigation agency. I learnt later that he
lost his license after it was revealed that Caroline Warmus's
murder weapon, a handgun, had been provided by him. He spent most
of the time explaining how to look for people by searching public
records. Regarding surveillance techniques, he said that it is not
against the law to follow somebody in the street or any public
area. Basically, his course served as advertising for the services
and gadgets sold by his own company. He showed some little black
boxes that revealed the existence of wiretqps of hidden
transmitters.

During recess, the polyester man turned to me and engaged
conversation. He said that he was setting up a show about a woman
singer of the Twenties or Forties. Never heard about her before. He
spoke with great enthusiasm about this woman and the time when 50th
street was Jazz Alley. I said I was a musician and that I played
Jazz standards. He said "You know, there is nothing worse in a show
than song after song after song. It is so boring. Singers must tell
stories between songs, otherwise people might as well buy records.
But most of the time singers sing without knowing the life of the
composers or songwriters. For instance, did you know that Cole
Porter was a cripple?" I said I didn't know. I had imagined Cole
Porter was an elegant and graceful man. I would never have imagined
that he had a severe limp. He said most people didn't know it, but
it was details like that that permitted a singer to enliven their
show, by telling things about the life of the composers/songwriters
whom they were interpreting.

Personally, I have always thought that stage patter is a way for
a lazy performer to cheat the public out of the music they have
paid to hear. Two, three sentences maximum is all I would permit
myself, and not every time between two songs. It must be really
important, or really funny.

Was this guy making a reference to the Ruth Brown show I had
gone to with Marie-Effie in the fall of 92, and that had
disappointed us both because the lady talked more than she sang?

During the second part of the course my attention drifted from
the droning voice of the speaker. I wondered how the guy near me,
who said he was producing a show, could look so down-at-the-heels
if he was in show business. When the show was over, I asked him
"What did you say you were doing? What exactly are you doing in
show business?" He looked embarrassed, and left in a hurry without
answering my question.

Fri. 22:

Yesterday as I was accessing this document, I noticed that the
password was missing. How could this have happened? I had been
carrying my diskettes with me every time I left my place for more
than five minutes. It had happened also on August 4, for my
document named TWO. At that time these documents were on hard disk
and I could explain that someone had accessed the document while I
was out, but how could it happen if I always carried my diskettes
with me? To remove the password you have to know it.

Today I received a letter from Me. Laurent dated Oct. 15:

"I have received your fax of september 29, the terms of which
seem to me particularly unjustified... If the situation is
completely blocked at this point, it is precisely because of your
negative and dilatory attitude.

Until now your family has patiently taken the consequences of
your attitude, but some of your sisters didn't return the agreement
form I sent them so that your share of the Brittanny house could be
paid to you.

Your sister Elisabeth has offered to take the Brittanny house as
part of her settlement to unblock the situation.

We are going to completely settle the estate after the Pantin
building is sold. Your mother is doing all she can to achieve this.
Of course this settlement will take into account all the advances
you have received since your father's death (1), as well as the
rent revenues you have received. (2)

Your mother asked me to precise that the proceeds from the sale
of the building at the Pre, which had been invested at UNOFI, have
been used to make the repairs in the Pantin building, as requested
by the City of Pantin.

I confirm to you that I have never given any advance to any of
your siblings. etc.
A fireworks of bad faith! The money that was promised me is
constantly made unavailable because of mandatory repairs, because
of a fire, an explosion and what not, and now he says it's all my
fault because I don't want to sign. But how could I trust my mother
after she has been leading me on for three whole years making up
excuses at the last minute to keep the money instead of giving it
to me? If I sign my agreement to the sale of the Pantin building,
the same thing is going to happen and I'll never see the money. And
he accuses me of being negative or dilatory. That takes the cake.
(1) The money that mother sent me is cash money-off-the-books that
is not part of the estate-on-the-books, so it can't be written off
my settlement.
(2) The rent revenues are a different matter altogether and are not
part of the settlement either. He and mother speak of deductions
even before they give me one cent! They're trying to prove that
they don't owe me anything.

Mon. 25: I go to the SRO Law Projetc at 647 Columbus. I want to know what
my rights are as a tenant. I start talking about my troubles to
Terry Poe: the theft of my photographs three months after I had
moved in, then the game the landlord had played on me, pretending
he was in love with me, and every time I responded rejecting me,
treateing me like dirt. I had never cried about it but now that
somebody was listening to me, tears started flowing. I continued
with the unauthorized entries and things being moved around in my
place even after I had changed the locks. He gave me a list of
SRO's marking those that had a better reputation, and other
brochures about SRO-tenants'rights.

I have returned to Worth & Worth to know what the big boss
thought about my hats. The manager said that he had seen them and
liked them. Then he pulled the price list I had left him that
indicated the price for the three models (standard, large and
extra-large). He said that it was unfair for people with a big head
to pay more than people with a small head. I said it was not only
a matter of head size, it was also a matter of volume, and people
had a choice of volume regardless of their head size, and that the
biggest hats took almost twice as much fabric as the smallest ones,
and took more work and time too, but he didn't seem to hear. He
took his calculator, and started punching numbers. He took the
price in the middle column for an average, and after a while said
that with their markup, the hats would be much too expensive. I
said I could give them a discount if they bought by the dozen, mix
and match. Then he said that I came to see them at the wrong time
because they had done all their buying for the year. I asked when
they bought their winter hats and he said in May. And anyway, even
if they bought from me, they would not be able to display my hats
in the window because they planned their display several months in
advance and there was no way to alter the plan. Besides, their
special designer glass-case was already occupied by a hat-
designer's work. He showed me. These were long-hair felt hats, caps
etc. in two-tone felt. I found the shapes and colors ugly and very
fancy compared to my sober shapes and colors.

The manager had made a complete turnaround between the time I
left him the seven hats and now. The first time he and his staff
were wildly and sincerely enthusiastic, and now he was giving me
all kinds of excuses while the staff stared silently, even though
my berets were perfectly adapted to the conservative style of the
store and to the fashion trend. Obviously someone had gone behind
my back in the interval and convinced them not to do business with
me.